


Sing Against the Windows

by Sour_Wolf (TMPNMK)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ace Lives, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Stiles Stilinski, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Based on a Tumblr Post, Child Neglect, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Female Stiles Stilinski, Found Family, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Frozen (2013), Kisses, LGBT characters, Let It Go (Frozen Song), Like one kiss, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical stiles, One Shot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Rule 63, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sharing a Bed, Short One Shot, Sort Of, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Steter Week, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Stilinski Family Feels, ace! fic, also stands alone, copious repitition, female! Stiles, if you want to interpret stiles as trans that works for me, like knock yourself out, may edit later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 13:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19173958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TMPNMK/pseuds/Sour_Wolf
Summary: When she was two the powder of the snow would dust her mother’s lashes, melting under the warmth of her smile.When she was four she squeezed her mother’s hand tight and made a wish.She was six when it happened.





	Sing Against the Windows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twisted_Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/gifts).



> Trigger Warnings in end notes.

When she was two the icy wind swirling through the trees sounded like a welcome. The giant flakes falling in loose spirals seemed magical, freeing. Her only memories that of being wrapped in her mother’s loving embrace, waddling through drifts only to be scooped up squealing as her face was bombarded with kisses. Loving lips warming red cheeks, glee and excitement bonding together under gray skies. When she was two the powder of the snow would dust her mother’s lashes, melting under the warmth of her smile. The snow wasn’t all that melted. Her father would watch proudly from the doorway, strong confidence turning to goo as he watched his wife. Crinkles in the corners of his eyes, task at hand forgotten. When the chill built up too much, she’d be swaddled in blankets, stuffed with food and cocoa. The wind outside waiting patiently for her return, singing against the windows as if to remind her of its presence. To her the cold was just as much a part of home as their cabin, their gardens, as the land on which she’d been raised. 

 

When she turned four she noticed the cold as it affected others. Noticed the townspeople’s fear, how they cowered inside. Hiding. She noticed how they feared the wind, how to them grey skies were not cause of joy, but of worry. How the woodcarver with the missing foot trembled in the face of that same powder she loved so much. “Not all people are like us.” Her mother’s words soothed her. The townspeople were just different. That night as she and her mother danced and sang under the white skies and tiny stars, she forgot the townspeople and their fears. This chill, this wind, this magic, this is what made her feel alive. When she was four she squeezed her mother’s hand tight and made a wish. 

 

She was six when it happened. The wind against the window, normally singing of peace, sang a song more harsh than any she’d heard before. The song sang of urgency, of desperation. It scared her. She opened the door to her mother’s room. Climbed between her and her father. Snuggled into her side. In her sleep, her mother turned towards her. Pulled her close. Nestled her into her chest. Her mother’s lips found her forehead. Pressed close. In the morning, when she had awakened her father had already left. She snuggled closer to her mother. Basking in the warmth of their embrace. Her mother’s eyes snapped open. Fear permeating her irises. “Who are you?”

 

When she was eight, the colour amber stopped representing the light in her mother’s eyes and came to be the liquid in her father’s glass. Without her mother’s warmth, without her cocoa and stories, the cabin felt empty. Now when she went inside, she no longer felt at ease. She stopped coming inside as frequently. 

 

When she turned ten, nobody noticed.

 

When she was twelve, the snow filled a void in her loneliness. She discovered her mother’s magic. The way she could twist flakes into objects, build castles of ice. Her father seldom came home now. She walked into the village and was greeted with pity in the eyes around her. The butcher tried giving her extra meat, but she did not want it. When the footless man passed by, he muttered things under his breath that she wished to have not heard. The snow spiralled down around her, whispering advice. She would prove her worth.

 

When she was fourteen, she’d had her job for two years. The people in the village no longer stared. No longer pitied. She did her work, and did a damn good job of it, and that entitled her to some respect. But she was still alone. She could not tell them how she had succeeded, could not reveal how the wind guided the lost animals back to her, how the snow parted to let her through, of the whispers of hidden food. So she stayed quiet. Better quiet than a freak. Her father didn’t seem to care much either. The crinkles in his skin, once the product of joy, seemed now to represent only pain.

 

When she was sixteen she buried her father. As she cleaned the snow from his grave, the wind stayed silent. As she gazed down at the unturned ground, she wanted to cry. But couldn’t. Her tears had frozen away a long time ago. During the funeral the pity returned, whispers of an uncle, a relative. She drowned them out and walked back to the cabin. The cabin answered her silence in kind. It was dark. Perhaps the last of the light had left with her mother. As she sat at the table she wondered of her future. Would she stay here? In this house with all the pain of her last eight years, this house that hadn’t known joy for eons? This house that was all she had left of her family. All she had ever known. This house that hadn’t always been filled with such sadness. She had no idea what to do. The whispering wind didn’t either. When she was sixteen the walls of the cabin pressed in too hard and she fled into the woods.

 

As she ran, the wind ran with her, a cooling touch against the heat of her forehead. As she ran, the snow ran with her, swirling in angry spirals around her body. As she ran, the ice ran with her, each step supported by solid crystals, keeping her feet from sinking. The winter would not abandon her. This home would not leave. 

 

She ran, and ran, feet chasing for some far away relief, perhaps another town, perhaps a new identity, perhaps even death. When she was sixteen she was unstoppable. Until she wasn’t. A whimper from the snow. When she was sixteen, she found a wolf pup. 

 

As she looked down upon this pup, she calmed. A baby. As she panted to catch her breath she considered leaving it. Abandoning it to the elements as her father had abandoned her. But the wind whispered disapproval. This wind, was the wind of her memories, of happiness. As she looked down upon this pup, she remembered her mother. Remembered a warm embrace, a happy dance. As she looked upon this pup, she made a decision.

 

When she was eighteen the cabin didn’t seem so lonely anymore. 

 

When she was twenty  she sat on the porch of her childhood home, and watched the powdery snow blanket her home. As she watched the snowfall she heard the wind whisper. Peaceful. When she was twenty she no longer feared the inside of her house. When she was twenty a warm presence guarded her feet at night. When she awoke in the night gasping for air, there were times that the shadows almost resembled a man. When she was twenty, seeing those strange shadows didn’t scare her, but calmed her.

 

When she was twenty two she fell in the woods. The snow washed around her, almost desperate. The wind screamed at her to  **_get up, get up, get up._ ** When she was twenty two she tried to get up. When she was twenty two she found that she couldn’t.  **_GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!_ ** Roared the wind. When she was twenty two she was so very tired. As her eyelashes fluttered the wind howled in despair. She fell asleep. 

 

When she was twenty two she awoke in bed. When she looked around her there was light. Warmth from the hearth. Her gaze fell upon the man tending the fire. She did not know his face, but yet she did not fear him. When she was twenty two, she learned her wolf’s name was Peter.

When she was twenty four she had her first kiss. When she was twenty four she said “No.” and was listened to. A kiss was a sweet thing, a gesture of love or affection. A kiss was all she’d ever want.

 

When she was twenty six she caught Peter watching her play in the snow. When he looked at her, enveloped in snow, ice crystals supporting her feet, he was not afraid. When he stepped forward, ice grew beneath his feet to support him. When he stepped forward, he did not look away. When he stepped forward, the wind hummed its approval. 

 

When she was twenty six she fell in love. 

 

When she was twenty eight the icy wind swirling through the trees would sound like a welcome. When she was twenty eight the powder of the snow would dust her lashes, melting under the long awaited warmth of her smile. Peter would watch proudly from the doorway,crinkles at the corners of his eyes. When the chill built up too much, he’d swaddle her in blankets, stuff her with food and cocoa. The wind outside would sing against the windows reminding her of its presence. To her Peter was just as much a part of home as their cabin, their gardens, as the wind and snow and ice. When she was twenty eight, she was home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Death, Suicidal thoughts, depression, drinking, alcohol abuse,
> 
> All the thanks to Twisted_Mind for being a fantastic mentor, an inspiration, and an absolute delight. Thanks for putting up with my hopeless sobbing over not being able to come up with a happy ending. Have a great pride!


End file.
